Sensimilla and Sandalwood
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: “The use was medicinal. We really shouldn’t be discussing this, Fin,” John said, taking a seat at the table and motioning for Tutuola to do the same. “You’ve made it abundantly clear how you feel about anyone lighting up for any reason whatsoever. SVU AU


"Sensimilla and Sandalwood"

by Cardinal Robbins

Munch and Fin aren't mine, by the way…but Zelman is.

Odafin Tutuola climbed the stairs to his partner's apartment and knocked on the door. He listened carefully and could hear Iron Butterfly on the stereo, not loud by any means but at a volume high enough to faintly discern the melody of "In A Godda Da Vida." Fin knocked again, a bit louder as a male voice called, "Just a moment." What was John Munch up to this time? Tutuola wondered, waiting.

He heard deadbolts being thrown and a chain being removed. The door opened about five inches, enough for him to see Munch's quizzical expression. "Fin," he stated, surprise in his tone. "You've dropped by my humble domicile unannounced? I should be honored," he said jokingly. "If we have a case, you could have phoned."

"Just a social call, but you'd know that if you opened the door wider than a crack," he replied. It was unusual for Munch not to immediately invite him in, but the door didn't budge. Nor had John acknowledged his pointed remark. "I was around and thought I'd stop by," he explained, "to see how Sarah's feeling. She okay?"

John had left the 16th an hour early to drive Zelman home, but on second thought he'd taken her to his place instead. He hadn't wanted to leave her alone, in case things worsened during the night.

Munch gave a noncommittal shrug, a relieved look on his face. "She's finally asleep," he replied. "First decent sleep she's had in at least 36 hours." He knew it as fact, because she'd left their bed those many hours ago, having carried a blanket and pillow to his couch. She was up several times, unwilling to remain in bed and run the risk of disrupting what sleep he could cadge before dawn.

An awkward silence stretched between them, as Fin tried to see past John, into his place. "I notice you're not opening the door. Hope I didn't interrupt anything," he quipped, wondering if he had arrived in the middle of a tryst.

"With Sarah out cold? Hardly," he retorted. "'Not tonight, I have a headache,' has taken on deeper meaning." John silently wondered how long he could hold Fin off, desiring only to close the door and go back to what he was doing, before the interruption. "Everything all right?" If this was about a case, Munch hoped his partner would simply say so. He heard the album on his turntable ending, and fervently wished he could make a graceful exit to add another platter.

Tutuola watched him curiously, taking in a deep breath that released in a long sigh. "Is that sandalwood?" he asked. "You burning incense, bro?" He forced nonchalance into his tone, despite his growing impatience with his friend.

"Yes, I'm burning incense and yes, they're sandalwood," Munch replied evenly. "Is that against the law now?" He inwardly cringed at his choice of words. What was meant as a joke, Fin took as a dare of sorts.

"If you're burnin' it to cover the smell of something else," he shot back. "You need stronger sandalwood, John. It's not hiding anything." Fin struggled to keep his tone friendly, but the aroma of burning hemp always irritated him. More so, that it was coming from his partner's apartment and the door was still barely open. "Let me in. We should talk." He tried not to glare, reminding himself this wasn't the first time he'd detected the scent of sensimilla in John's place.

Munch sighed, knowing it was no use; Fin wouldn't let up until he'd come in and given him a lecture. Or worse. "Are you coming in as my friend, or as a cop?" he asked, hoping it was the former. Tutuola could easily get him busted, if he chose to pursue the matter.

"As your friend, John," he assured him. He was becoming impatient with the charade, wondering what else John was hiding or holding back. "C'mon, open the door. I'll leave the cop outside." Fin wasn't about to leave, not with the distinct smell of cannabis wafting into the hallway.

Munch shrugged and finally pulled open the door, wide enough for Tutuola to come through. "If you say so," he quipped. "Sure, come in." He motioned toward the kitchen, forcing a tight smile. "You want a beer?" Distract him with booze, but don't expect it to work, he thought ruefully.

Fin studied his partner for a long moment, noticing he'd changed from his dark suit into black jeans and polo shirt. His almost ever-present shades were on, despite the semi-darkened apartment. "That sounds good right about now," he admitted. "John, you okay?" he pressed.

"I'm fine," he asserted. "Why do you ask?" He carefully studied his friend's face, fairly certain of what he was getting at, but not wanting to let on right away.

Odafin tried not to cross his arms over his chest, instead taking off his black leather coat and draping it over a nearby chair. "Take off your glasses for a minute."

John tipped his head back a bit, feigning an indignant expression. "Nice try. You're too late," he admitted. "I've already put in eye drops." He walked into the kitchen, reached into the refrigerator and retrieved a couple beers, closing the door and avoiding eye contact with his friend. "Would you like a glass?"

"Straight from the bottle's good, thanks," Fin said, gratefully accepting a Sam Adams lager. "It's pretty obvious what you've been doing, but how about telling me why."

"The use was medicinal. We really shouldn't be discussing this, Fin," John said, taking a seat at the table and motioning for Tutuola to do the same. "You've made it abundantly clear how you feel about anyone lighting up for any reason whatsoever," he insisted. "This is only going to mean another argument about pointless government regulations versus practical need." He took a long pull from his beer, readying himself for another debate with the former Narcotics detective.

Fin shrugged eloquently, not entirely in the mood for a pro and con go-round, yet unwilling to let the matter pass. "Then we'll agree to disagree, John, but that doesn't mean you can dodge my question."

"I did it for Sarah," he answered. "You saw what happened today."

He nodded, having seen what took place. "She had a migraine. She looked like hell, especially after Elliot gave her those saltines and Sprite," he admitted. "She needed some time in a dark room, no phones and no noise." Fin remembered she'd disappeared in the early afternoon, finally taking Cragen's advice and heading for a crib. Within twenty minutes, she was back at her desk, unable to rest or concentrate on their current case-load.

"It wasn't that simple," Munch countered. "Doc Warner gave her something for nausea and something else for pain; she couldn't even keep those down. It's also the last time I let Elliot play witch doctor," he added. "She was exponentially worse afterward." He'd wanted to take her home right then, but she was determined to try and last out the headache, at least until end of watch.

Fin shook his head, taking another sip of amber lager. "You gotta admit, he tried his best – it almost always worked for Liv's headaches," he offered in Elliot's defense. "He thought it'd work for Sarah, too."

John shook his head. "He was trying to help, I know," he relented. "But nothing worked. I got her up here and it was more of the same." He almost cringed, thinking again of how the early evening had begun. "Not even Gatorade settled. There wasn't a whole lot else I could do, Fin," he said decisively.

Tutuola took a steadying breath, fighting the urge to verbally launch on his partner. "So you lit up a blunt and passed it to her?" He hoped his tone was more conversational than it felt.

John fiddled with his glass, finally taking another long pull. "I knew if I lit up and got her to take a few hits, she'd be able to keep her medication down." He refused to feel guilty, nor would he be bullied into as much by someone on the other side of the coin.

"Anything missing from the evidence locker?" Fin asked, genuinely concerned. He didn't want to think about the alternative – that Munch had gone to a dealer.

"Don't be insulting," he retorted, giving his partner a look. "The bunk weed supply in there is for rookies who don't know decent grass from a bag of lawn clippings." He feigned an indignant expression as he shook his head.

Fin was nonplussed, especially since he was still wondering how Munch got a ready supply of grass. "I don't think Cap would share your sense of humor, bro. Why not take her to the Reddi-Med or over to Mercy's E.R.?" Help was only a few blocks away, but he hadn't taken advantage of it. Sometimes, Odafin conceded, he knew less than he thought about John's reasoning.

Munch got up to put his empty bottle in the recycling bin. He took a deep breath, wondered if his friend would understand, and finally went for it. "She wasn't in any shape to sit in a waiting room for a few hours, whether it was at a clinic or the emergency room," he explained. "Doesn't anyone but me understand how she gets with these headaches?"

"I do understand, John," Tutuola insisted.

"I'm not convinced you do, Fin," he replied. "Two days of seeing auras, followed by four days of pain. Every single time, with perhaps a rare exception if she's lucky."

"But street drugs aren't the answer, John," he said, not willing to be swayed. "Maybe she needed to have I.V. drugs like Demerol or something? They could have given her meds and re-hydrated her at the same time." He waited, hoping Munch followed his logic. He took a sip of beer and continued. "Instead, you give her something that could have been sprayed or dusted with nobody knows what. One hell of a risk for you both."

Fin knew he was getting wound up about it, but if there ever was a time it was now. "What if you got a hold of some done up with PCP? This isn't the 1960's anymore and you can't tell me marijuana hasn't changed since then, because we both know it has."

"It wasn't a quality-control issue. This was completely organic grass from a reliable source I've known since before I wore a badge," John replied. He did indeed know his source; it was someone he'd been acquainted with for years, who happened to farm his own on the Islands. "It came over from Hawaii, specifically Maui."

He debated going into the room which held his vinyl records, to pull down the imported inlaid box from India, to display the purity of his purchase. A moment's hesitation, then he thought better of it. "Almost one hundred percent buds, with enough delta-nine-tetrahydrocannibinol to ease everything from a lousy day to the side-effects of chemotherapy."

"Maui Wowi sesimilla? I should'a figured." Fin went over and put his bottle into the recycling, gesturing to John that one beer was enough. "How many hits did she take of that crap?"

"Crap? You dare call the champagne of cannabis 'crap'?" he replied, genuinely indignant.

"Right," Fin replied sourly. "C'mon, John, how many hits?" He went back to the table, sat down and waited for an answer.

John, his lanky frame leaned against the kitchen counter, studied his partner's expression for a moment. "Four. She paused between each one, so she could figure out if she needed another. At four, the nausea was tolerable and she thought the pain pills would stay down." He stood, went to the refrigerator and pulled out a Coca-Cola, placing it on the table in front of Fin.

The cola sat unopened as Tutuola leaned back in his chair. "Pills? As in more than one?" His tone dared John to tell him what remained of the truth.

"Yes, plural," Munch snapped. "That's exactly what I said."

"Damn, bro! How many of those did she take?"

"Two. Vicodin," he replied. "It's what Warner prescribed."

He was absolutely incredulous, standing again to go almost face-to-face with his friend, his partner. "Not two at a time, John, because I know better! Let me see her. She's stoned and drugged!"

"She's fine!" John realized they were both almost yelling and stopped, gesturing to ensure they'd keep down the noise before his neighbors could hear them.

"I want to make sure she's okay," Odafin insisted, sure to keep his voice lowered. He grudgingly opened the Coke and took a sip.

"She knows what it takes to get rid of a migraine, Fin," John assured him. "You don't believe me?" Munch knew Zelman had worked with Tutuola long before she and John had met, collaborating on busts when the NYPD needed assistance from the FBI. Too many times, drugs and sex crimes were intertwined, requiring Sarah's expertise. With her background, John trusted Sarah to know her tolerance – be it having a drink after work or a few tokes to take down a nasty headache.

"She mixed street drugs with a double-dose of prescription painkillers, John. Does she do that all the time?" Fin felt surreal; he never expected to hear Zelman had done something so risky. If he hadn't heard it from Munch he never would have believed it.

"Of course not. This was the exception," he answered. "She has taken a couple pain pills at a time before, but she didn't mix them with marijuana." He wondered what was worse in Fin's mind – the pills, the grass or the thought of them combined. He chastised himself for a moment, suddenly second-guessing Sarah's ability to judge quantities for herself.

"Then she had no idea what she was doing. Pain can make people stupid – even someone who's smart, like Sarah," he insisted. "She shouldn't be messing with the amount she takes, either." It wasn't going to stop with Munch. As soon as she was able, Fin would take her somewhere private and give her absolute hell for her actions, whether she wanted to hear it or not. He would speak his piece and then some, mistaken if she expected him not to say anything.

"You're afraid she overestimated what her system could handle?" Munch asked. For a chilling moment, so was he. Had she taken too much? It hadn't seemed so, but now he wasn't sure.

"Damned straight, I am. It's called 'stacking,' John – it's accidentally killed people before, plenty of times. You read the papers, you know it as well as I do," he asserted. "If she hasn't done this before, how could she know?" He forced himself to grasp some semblance of calm. He took a drink of soda as he awaited John's answer.

Munch blew out a long breath, realized he hadn't checked on Sarah since he'd opened the door and admitted he really didn't know. "I don't know what to tell you. Fine," he said. "Come back here with me, Fin, so you can see her."

John walked toward the bedroom as Odafin followed, waiting in the doorway until Munch turned on his bedside lamp, adjusting it to the lowest setting. "Come in, it's okay," he said softly, motioning for Tutuola to enter. "If you wake her, though, I will seriously hurt you," he almost whispered.

Fin nodded as he went over to Sarah's side of the bed, watching her chest rise and fall evenly. As far as he could tell, her breathing was deep, not too slow nor hindered by the drugs in her system. He reached down slowly and gingerly placed two fingers against her wrist, to check her pulse. Strong and steady – another indication she was all right, despite the narcotics and contraband. Still, it upset him to think about what she'd swallowed and smoked.

He reluctantly let go of her wrist, leaving her to sleep. "You win. She's okay," he said softly. "Steady pulse, her breathing's good." He cast one more glance at Zelman before he looked to John once more. "You got some fluid into her, too?"

"A couple glasses of Gatorade. So far, so good," he said quietly, turning off the light and relinquishing the room to total darkness. "C'mon, let's not wake her."

Once Fin cleared the door, he kept his voice low but Munch could tell he was still far past merely irritated. "John, do me a favor? Don't let her mix drugs like that anymore," he insisted. "Neither of us want to see her end up a statistic. Vicodin and grass? She sure as hell knew better. And you knew Sarah was playing with fire, too, doing that," he said hotly, wondering why she would ever have put herself in so much danger. Why had John allowed her to take chances? For someone so afraid he'd lose Sarah to the streets, Munch occasionally dropped the ball when it came to other risks; it maddened Odafin no end. "Next you'll be tellin' me she took the pills with a glass of wine." He realized he'd been snapping, but didn't care.

"Actually, it was a triple-shot of Bacardi 151," Munch snapped back angrily. "You realize I'm being facetious," he added wryly. "It was a glass of water."

"You think this is funny? That makes one of us," Fin retorted, settling down heavily on the living room sofa.

John sat down as well, immediately regretting his tone. "No, I don't – if you want me to say, 'You're right,' then so be it. But it's also not something to make a Federal case out of, either," he said, his tone softening. "In the future, I'll make sure she takes one pain pill at a time."

"I'll buy that, because I know you wouldn't lie to me, John," he said. "But what about the grass?" He knew how hard to push; this was one of those times he needed to get even a perfunctory promise out of his partner.

"We'll have to compromise," Munch decided. "Two hits, tops. I'm not about to say she won't need something to ease the nausea, because nothing else seems to work."

Fin took a deep breath, it slowly escaped as his anger began to ebb. "That's more like it. Not what I'd like to hear, but maybe I can live with it."

"You're still mad about this, I can tell. Go ahead, say whatever you want," Munch insisted, setting his beer glass on the floor, by the arm of the couch. "I'm not apologizing however, not after what she went through today. I'd rather be in pain myself than see her suffering."

A hot-button issue with him, he refused to give-in without at least some debate. "Studies have been done across the country, around the world," he amended, "and through the government; it's indisputable there's a medicinal use for cannabis. The only reason it's still illegal is because the Feds haven't found a way to grow it, distribute it and slap a heavy tax on it." He'd read more than High Times over the years. There was no doubt he'd done his research, but that still didn't sway Fin.

"I get all that, John, I do. Hell, even I'd rather suffer than see Sarah in pain, because she's my partner, too," he explained. "My problem is, whether your theory is right or not, you had to make an end-run around the legal system. There was a better way, but you took the shortcut. If you or Sarah get nicked for a random tox-screen, you're busted." He couldn't contain the heat, his temper finally boiling over in worry for both his friends. "If she accidentally overdosed and you had to call a bus, Cragen would have both your asses on a platter. Probably your badges, too. The risks aren't worth it." He almost glared at John, his hard gaze visible even in the comparatively dim light.

"Okay, you're right, but I had to do something," he replied. "I did what I knew would work."

Fin drew in a deep, steadying breath. "Maybe this time. There are a few more things you need to do."

"Such as?" John asked pithily.

"Open the bathroom window. I can tell that's where you lit up," he began. "Vent it out, burn some candles or maybe some better sandalwood. When you take your shower in the morning, wash you hair. Have Sarah do the same. Twice." He didn't like the fact he was ticking off ways to beat the system, but what choice did he have at this point? "Wear cologne. Pop some Altoids – they'll also settle her stomach, if she's still feelin' sick. Both of you be sure and use eye drops in the morning, about five minutes before you walk into the precinct," he finished, his tone resigned more than angry after all.

Munch huffed slightly, a rueful grin breaking through. "You're not telling me anything I don't know… Don't worry, Fin, I know the drill. She does, too. We're not teenagers anymore, she and I know how to cover the obvious." He felt like a junior high student who'd just been caught behind the bleachers, busted for sharing a joint with his girl.

"At least it's easier to wear off the grass," Fin decided. "It's not like getting a contact high, trying to bust a coke cartel. Shit, I still can't believe they nicked me for something they knew would happen." His tone was pure venom, having been hung out to dry – twice – by IAB, because of events beyond his control.

"Look, Fin, I know there wasn't anything intentional when you inadvertently tested 'dirty,' and it has nothing to do with what kind of cop you are," Munch assured him. "Sarah and I, well, we're in a different situation. We'll both be fine by morning; like I said, don't worry."

Tutuola decided he wasn't yet through, considering John's cavalier tone. "Don't tell me not to worry, when I know what IAB can do to both of you. I'll be pissed if I have to break in a new partner – or two – for whatever reason," he snapped. "I worry more about you, bro. Like I said before, this isn't the 1960s anymore, even though you keep acting like it." Did he 'get it' or not? Sometimes, Fin couldn't be sure. For an intellectual, Munch had his incredibly obtuse moments.

"I'm aware of that, despite my Lou Reed collection," he shot back, feeling insulted.

"I'm just saying – "

"I understand your point, Fin. Judging by the look on your face, you're also wondering if I'd do it again," he said, almost baiting him with his tone.

"I already know the answer, John," he retorted. "Don't get me wrong, I get what you're trying to do for Sarah, but I can't back you up on it. We both know there was a better way." His response almost forbade further debate, but he knew Munch wouldn't give up. It wasn't in John's nature to lose a debate, especially one which hit so close to home.

"Like I said, we'll have to agree to disagree on the issue," Munch conceded.

Fin, at last satisfied he'd gotten his point across, thought for a moment, before he asked John a question. "Is it true you did harder drugs than this before you became a cop? Man, you have no idea what I've heard," he said, amazed. "We've talked around it over the years, but you've never really answered me."

John shrugged, almost surprised the question hadn't been raised sooner. "Probably all the rumors you've heard are true; it was everything from acid to 'ludes, muscle-relaxers and a lot of things in between. Granted, some of it was while I worked Homicide in Baltimore, which didn't help my illustrious reputation in the slightest," he admitted. "Don't ask me to elaborate, however, because you won't like what you hear."

"I thought being with Sarah would straighten you out, bro."

"'Straighten me out'? he asked, incredulous. "Everything I've done was before she and I met, except for an occasional joint, sleeping pill or tranquillizer." He looked up for a moment, as if the proper way to break the news was written above him somehow. He took a deep breath, looked at Fin and decided to go for it. "She's not exactly the saint you may think she is, Fin. Your 'Queen of Quantico' isn't without her flaws when it comes to pharmaceuticals."

"How's that? She doesn't give me the vibe she's done much of anything stronger than aspirin, at least not without a doctor's 'scrip," he replied, momentarily perplexed.

"You'll be shocked to know she's been addicted to prescription drugs more than once in her life, thanks to a quack she used to go to. He started her on the hard stuff when she was far too young to know the consequences," he explained. "Dexies, bennies, Valium, Xanax… Surprisingly she was never addicted to codeine or Darvocet, but you know as well as I do, she uses them instead of anything over-the-counter."

John marveled at how Sarah kept a spare bottle of painkillers in her locker, or always knew who in the precinct had them when she was out. She refused to let her chronic migraines affect her work, even though most in the squad were willing to pick up the slack if she did want to hit the cribs.

"Wait… Did you say 'dexies'?" Fin asked. "Zelman was a speed freak? During Quantico, right?"

"No, she was in her early teens and stayed on dexies for five years, until she quit cold turkey. Same with the Valium, when she was put on tranqs for the headaches – five years, then she flushed an entire bottle down the toilet and stopped cold," John replied. "She said the headaches were easier than the downers. It was hell for her each time, but she managed to do it without help."

It hadn't been as easy for him, however. There had been times when Gwen read him the riot act about his casual drug use, as well as his habit of having a drink with the rest of his Homicide compatriots in Baltimore. "She cleaned up well in advance of Quantico, or she'd never have passed all the tox-screens."

"Damn… I never would have suspected she was into all that mess," Tutuola admitted. "Sounds like the doctor she went to lit her up pretty good. It couldn't have been easy going cold turkey, not once but twice. She flew under my radar; I can almost always tell when someone's been a user." He shook his head, wondering how Sarah could have hidden it from his so easily. "She must have totally cleaned up her act, that's all I can figure."

"You sound as if you'd expected to see tracks between her fingers," Munch shot back.

"I'm not saying that and you know it. She never – "

He glared at Fin over the top of his dark lenses. "No, she's never shot up. Somewhere along the line, she also developed resolve. But when the pain gets to be more than she can handle, she has to do something." John knew when her pain tolerance had been surpassed, the situation was serious.

"She needs to be careful and so do you. She needs to stick to things Warner or Huang gives her – and follow their instructions for a change," Fin verbally jabbed.

"I'll try to steer her that way in the future," he replied, momentarily bending down to retrieve his beer glass. "I will. I'm not just saying it to get you off my back." He locked gazes with his partner for a moment, sealing his promise.

"Yeah, well, I'll hold you to it, John. Thanks for the beer, bro. Keep a close eye on Sarah, at least until she sleeps off the pain pills?" he asked, standing up to take his bottle into the kitchen.

John took the bottle from him, instead. "I will. I'll see you tomorrow. You won't be able to tell, I'll make sure of it." As he knew he truly would, since their careers depended upon it.

"Good to know. I better leave," he said, "before the cop outside starts wondering what's up." As they both walked into the kitchen, he found his leather coat once more, put it on and headed for the door. "Take care, John."

"'Night, Fin." He unlocked the door for his friend and held it open. "If it means anything…thanks."

"Not a problem," he said lightly. "At least not after our talk. Goodnight, John. See you tomorrow."

Munch nodded, watched as Fin walked down the stairs, then let out a long sigh.

He closed the door, locking it once more before he went into the bedroom. Illumination from a street lamp filtered through the curtains, casting light and shadows on the bed. He looked down on Zelman, a peaceful expression on her face as she slept. John sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, on impulse reaching over to brush her hair back before momentarily interlacing his fingers in hers. Comfortable habit. A ritual between the two of them, begun years ago.

Moments later, deep in thought from his conversation with Fin, he arose and changed into his scrubs. Slowly, he got into bed, moving closer to Sarah as he wrapped his arm around her waist. He snuggled next to her, his face in her hair, surprised when she awoke and put her hand over his.

"Hey… Was that the TV I heard earlier?" she asked sleepily, wondering what he'd been watching while she slept. He usually opted for The History Channel, sometimes National Geographic or Discovery, if he wasn't watching world news on the BBC, or national news on CNN.

"It wasn't the television," he replied. "Fin came over to see how you were doing. He stayed and had a beer while we talked." John softly kissed the back of her neck, tightening his hold on her.

Sarah hesitated a moment, then asked, "Does he know?" She moved her feet against his, half-expecting him to yelp that hers were cold.

"Yes. Yes, he does," Munch replied, punctuating the answer with a long sigh.

Her shoulders stiffened at the sound of it. "Is he okay?" she quizzed him. "Or is he furious?" She turned over to be face-to-face with John, trying to discern in the dark if the conversation had left both men upset.

John kissed her lightly, trying to allay her concern. "You know Fin…he's more worried than angry," he explained. "But we came to terms."

Sarah took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn't have let you go through with it," she apologized, lowering her gaze.

"Don't worry about it, babe. It's okay," he assured her. "Besides, you're forgetting whose idea it was." He caressed her face, running a finger down to her lips, taking the moment to kiss her once more. "Are you feeling any better?" John placed his hand against the back of her neck, massaging gently, hoping her headache had eased up.

"Much, thanks. Migraine's down to a low roar and the nausea's gone," she replied, leaning forward a bit to kiss him softly. "I feel so much better than I did a few hours ago, you have no idea." She smiled in the darkness, able to meet the gaze in his dark eyes. "You did what worked, John. Please don't forget, however, I was a willing participant."

"Good, I'm just relieved you're feeling better," he said softly, drawing her closer. _That made it worth the risks,_ he thought.

_This time._


End file.
